They grind out cheerful existences in South and East London's open-air showroom quarters. Played to the patter of the neo-dustbowl pop directive to please, their songs cover exhaustion, traps and the shortening of horizons. Once pandemics and catastrophe got boring, the band took it back to major-minor chords. Downer sounds for a blinding bright tomorrow. Death to pseudo-soul. Everyone moans about the rent, but in all the confusion and complaining the people are holding it together, having learnt to be sexually attracted to debt.